


confidence man

by their_dark_materials



Category: Emmerdale, robron
Genre: Also Love at First Art, Artist!Aaron, Con Artist AU, Conman!Robert, Constant and Mutual Pining, Exes to Lovers, Love at First Sight, M/M, Or Love at First Fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/their_dark_materials/pseuds/their_dark_materials
Summary: Robert's a con man looking to secure them the perfect life. Aaron's the artist helping him.Or at least, heusedto be.





	confidence man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Illgetmerope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illgetmerope/gifts).

He doesn’t like the taste of whiskey. Never has. But there’s something about the feel of it in his mouth as he watches Aaron paint; bitter on his tongue as it swirls hot against his cheeks and burns down his throat, warming every inch of him bit by bit.

Every inch of him that isn’t already warmed by the sight of his ex hard at work, that is. 

They’re in a quaint, if slightly shabby, village bed and breakfast in the south of France, which means he’d had to cover the floor in old newspapers, before laying down some tarp lest the floor or white wicker furniture get any splashback. Aaron Dingle has never really been a messy painter, but Robert doesn’t like taking unnecessary chances. Not when it comes to dabbling on _this_ particular side of the law.

Besides, he likes giving Aaron the option to get messy if he wants.

He’s always given Aaron an option.

The best (and worst) part is when he actually takes him up on it.

:::::

_  
The way Aaron Dingle paints is…_

Robert gave up trying to describe the way Aaron paints almost three years ago, back when he’d run into him at a gallery show in Leeds while casing the joint and had been blown away by the sharp tongue and the quick wit of the fit bearded guy who’d known way more about art than he’d given him credit for — and as much about fucking his brains out as he’d expected him to. (Robert had blown him in the bathroom after he’d gotten half-hard hearing him talk about the Mondrian exhibit at the Leeds Art Gallery. Aaron — as he’d learned his name was only after they’d done the deed — had returned the favour with a cheeky smile and those blue bedroom eyes. Robert remembers thinking that _that_ had been the exact moment he’d gotten lost.)

Learning that he was just a mostly-broke mechanic working at his uncle’s garage and not a completely-broke art student at university, like he’d imagined, had only made him fall deeper.

Sometimes he’d finish chatting up a potential mark and open up a text message to Aaron, only he’d always get stumped on his name, his mind getting all flustered and tied up in a way his actual tongue never did. Not until he’d met Aaron. 

_Aaron Dingle._

The man of few words, but infinite snark, and a thousand beautiful pictures just swimming in that gorgeous, well-gelled head.

Robert used to wonder what Aaron was thinking all the time.

That was before he learned to read his work.

Learned to read _him_. 

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

:::::

He’d told Aaron what it is he really did after only their second time sleeping together. (It had technically been their first “actual” date, but Robert likes to think that was their first meeting. Not every day you meet and fuck and fall in love with your soulmate all on the same night. But he had, and it was worth it.)

Laying there in bed, Robert’s head on his bare, naked chest, Aaron hadn’t been all that surprised to learn this news. He’d already begun to put the pieces together; how it was that Robert seemed to know so much about fine art and always had so much money to spend on him. (Robert had been grateful not to be kicked out of bed, he’d already had designs for a second and third round of sex, as well as many a future date after.)

They’d make it down the aisle if he’d had any say in it. But for now, there was the matter of how Aaron would take the news.

Quite well, as it had turned out. Because thieving — or more specifically, forgery — ran in the family.

Aaron’s uncles Cain and Zak were the ones who’d first trained him in the art of it. What had started out as the recreation of fraudulent documents and signatures had quickly bloomed into a passion for colours and the human form. It had been Aaron just playing at first, a teenager’s attempts to recreate the images that spoke to him on his many childhood school trips to the local art museum, and later, all the area art galleries. But as time went on, the recreations grew more and more accurate, until Aaron himself got a little confused as to which was his and which was the original.

Robert hadn’t seen _that_ until the morning after that first (or rather, second) date, when he’d walked into the living room of Aaron’s tiny one-bedroom flat and seen an almost exact replica of Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_ just hanging there over the small two-person IKEA dining table that was home to a teetering pile of sketchbooks.

“Did you paint this?” He’d asked, stood there sipping coffee in Aaron’s t-shirt and his underwear and the sizzling of bacon in his ears.

Aaron had barely looked up, eyes fixed on their fry-up as he’d stood there in _Robert’s_ shirt and just his boxers. “Yeah. When I was 18.”

“Can you do this with other artists?” Robert had asked, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

“Reckon so,” Aaron had said, cool blue eyes leaving the pan to study his face.

Robert had wondered what he saw and if it was enough for him. In that moment it had been, because Aaron had wordlessly looked down at the eggs, leaving a tiny piece of Robert’s soul both seen and aching.

He’d smiled as he’d bitten into a piece of toast, just happy to share this moment together. The dirty, little grease monkey he’d fallen for already having a bit of a checkered past. But it had only made Robert love him more.

:::::

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

The first time Robert had seen something original of Aaron’s it had stopped his heart and stolen his breath away; made him want to know what else was lying in that brilliant brain of his, but too scared to ask.

It had been a sketch. Small and simple, of a mother and a child on a day at the beach. Only something about the layering of light and shadow had spoken to Robert and taken him back to his own childhood on the family farm; him and his mother playing word association games as she went about her chores and he kicked his ball around. As he’d focused on the colours in Aaron’s watercolour drawing, he’d felt like he’d been right there, seagulls cawing as he’d squinted across the surf and sand, the smell of saltwater in his nostrils.

Aaron hadn’t shut the sketchbook. He’d just sat there breathing slowly and fidgeting mildly, like his skin was itching; like he’d wanted to tug the book away, but the only thing keeping him from doing so was the fact that it was in Robert’s hands.

So he’d quickly closed it and handed it back like it was no big deal that his boyfriend had casually let him _hold_ a goddamn sense memory of his childhood.

Like it had been no big deal that Aaron had let him see something that wasn’t a reproduction of someone else’s beauty.

Like it had been no big deal he’d felt he could do so after only one month of dating.

Robert had told him he’d loved him that very same night. Aaron had rolled his eyes, but they’d been smiling the entire time.

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

:::::

  
Working together had been better than expected. But as far as Robert was concerned, that was always the case with Aaron.

Robert would spend his evenings finding naive, unsuspecting marks and dangling the bait of a rare, never-before-seen painting from a completely reclusive artist in front of their greedy, wanting eyes. Aaron would spend his evenings watching silently, sipping his drink and studying Robert as he stroked egos until the rich and tipsy were eagerly eating out of the palm of his hand.

They’d spend their nights together, lounging on the sofa after a home-cooked meal, before Aaron retreated into his art and Robert camped out with a novel — every bit of it enjoyably domestic.

Mornings were for work. Aaron at Cain’s garage, Robert wining and dining clients in their offices and over lunch, all while texting Aaron all the things he’d be thinking — as well as all his plans for what he’d like to do to him after. Aaron usually responded, with short bursts of texts or pictures. The latter had always been Robert’s favourite because even if he didn’t get the nudes he craved, he’d get a glimpse into Aaron’s eye for framing and detail.

Sometimes while working, Robert would approach Aaron just for the fun of it; act like he’s a stranger before trying to seduce his way into Aaron’s pants, just like he had the first time. (Or, as Aaron used to joke, just like he’d _let_ him.)

It had been easy to tell that Aaron enjoyed that best, having Robert’s attention for a full night of seduction; a second chance for them to fall in love and for each other. (He’d let Robert lead him by the hand into dark, secluded shadows, kiss him on the mouth with one hand curled around his neck and the other slid down his trousers — all while running the risk of someone walking in on them around the corner.) 

Most of the time though, it had been Robert and someone else. But even then, there had been a bit of an unspoken agreement: No actual seduction of a mark.

The closest Robert had been allowed to get was the _suggestion _of delayed sexual gratification — but even that was on a case-by-case basis.

In this one thing, Aaron never gave him an option.

:::::

_  
The way Aaron Dingle paints is…_

The first time Robert actually watches Aaron work — _really _work — is after dinner one month into living together.

He’d cleared the plates off the table and done the washing up, so he’d settled on the sofa with one of his various _Star Wars_ novels. Only, he’d soon gotten distracted by the sight of Aaron emerging from their bedroom, canvas and easel tucked under an arm and his face deep in concentration.

He’d set up by the living room window, clearly in search of moonlight — or whatever elusive quality Aaron Dingle deemed necessary for this particular forgery.

He’d watched as Aaron simply stood there conceptualising the painting, biting his bottom lip as his brow remained furrowed; lost in thought on a plane distant to Robert.

If he were an artist he’d paint this moment right here. But he wasn’t, and so he was stuck, just sitting there and bearing witness. (It hadn’t occurred to him until later that he could have snapped a picture on his phone. But looking back, it had felt like it would have cheapened the moment if he had.)

When Aaron had eventually begun painting, there was still all that fixed intensity, emitted off of him in waves dipped in moonlight; the tension in his forearms, bared in a black t-shirt as he gripped the brush and moved in quick fluid strokes, the dark cloudiness in his eyes as he gazed at the canvas, similar to what Robert had felt turned on _him_ in the bedroom.

He’d sat there and watched him, stroke after stroke, mixing colours with casual precision. It’s in that moment Robert realised that when Aaron knew what he wanted, he’d go for it without hesitation. That _he_ was only here because Aaron wanted it.

And just like that, he could see a full future before them, one where Aaron painted and he sat there watching.

By the time Aaron had finished, standing back and studying, Robert knew it was what _he_ wanted. He’d gone up to him and hugged his back, before turning him around and kissing him; one hand on his cheek, another flat against his back, not an inch between them for doubting.

To this day, Robert can’t describe the actual painting, can only describe the taste and feel of Aaron.

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

:::::

  
They say to never let the job break you, but one con, in particular, splits them apart and for months after Robert had felt too tender to even attempt to heal, just throwing himself into one con after the other.

The Whites were the promise of a payday that was a long time coming, Robert having dreamed about whisking Aaron away to Europe on an extended vacation, culminating in them moving away to the city of their choosing.

But then he’d gone up against Chrissie and Lawrence, attempting his promise of seduction on either of them, playing them against each other while hoping one would crack.

The only one who had, was ultimately Aaron, who hadn’t felt right about Robert’s playing with Lawrence’s feelings, too filled with sympathy and kindness for his own good.

“He was sent to prison _because_ he was gay,” Aaron had hissed in what had become _their_ kitchen, slamming a hand on the countertop. “I don’t want you messin’ with his head like that.”

“He’s not a saint, you know. He has hurt people,” Robert had argued, stepping close to Aaron, annoyance mixed with exasperation mixed with desperation. “And he lies and steals. How do you think he’s gotten so rich in the first place?”

“So do you, Robert,” Aaron had countered effortlessly, eyes a cold kind of steel, “How does that make you any better?”

It had stung, knowing that deep down Aaron felt that. But Robert had rolled with it, too focused on the life he wanted them to be living than the one they’d already had. “I’m not saying I’m any better. I’m saying he’s not the innocent man you think he is.”

“Go after him if you want,” Aaron had said, granting him that tiny inch. “But don’t do it like _this_.”

Robert had known what he’d meant, the allusion to how he himself had struggled with self-acceptance, only to come out the other side a bit emotionally battered but ultimately no worse for wear.

“Not my fault if he doesn’t want to accept who he is,” Robert had sulked bitterly — only to be struck by the way Aaron had looked at him after, like what he was finally seeing was what that Robert’s father had seen all those years ago, not long before he’d sent him away.

But it had been fine, because in a way, he’d almost been expecting it. No one loved Robert for long, and if they ever did, they eventually left him. (Like his first mother, then his second mother, and finally his father. Either taken away from him or choosing to cast him away willingly.) That’s why he’d wanted to do this in the first place. If they had all that money, they’d never have to work, just coast from place to place, fucking and painting.

It was the life Aaron deserved — the life they _both_ deserved.

It had all been for their future.

So he’d stuck to his plan and gone for the prize, as cutthroat and ruthless as he ever was. He’d eventually gotten the money — as well as a few cracked ribs — but in the process he’d lost Aaron.

Turns out their fight that night had been Aaron giving him an option; not to play with an old man’s heart and toy with his feelings (about his sexuality and otherwise). And while Robert hadn’t done much but take him out to dinner, the fallout from it continued for weeks, the fracturing of them gradual.

It had started with Aaron no longer accompanying him to galleries or parties, and continued with him no longer staying up to wish him goodnight after dinners. He’d started painting alone, locking himself in their bedroom, no longer showing Robert pieces from his sketchbooks.

And then one day, he’d woken up and shown Aaron a text, proud of his convincing Lawrence to possibly pay in the millions. But Aaron had gazed back, eyes all sad and regretful as he’d said he couldn’t do this any longer.

“I love you, Robert. I’ll _always_ love you, but I can’t keep doing this,” he’d said, tears in his eyes, distance in his stance. “I can’t keep lyin’ and messin’ with people’s feelings like this.”

Robert had begged and Robert had pleaded, but in the end all he’d managed was that second stay of execution.

After a week, he’d found himself back at it again, this time roping in an old associate to play a part previously played by Aaron. And while he’d tried to hide this latest development, he could sense Aaron reading the steadily growing furtive guilt on his face as he ducked away for secretive phone calls in hushed voices.

Aaron had moved out exactly one week later.

The next day Robert was 12 million richer.

:::::

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

The more he tries to remember, the more details he feels like he’s starting to forget.

Sometimes he’ll be in a gallery and he’ll feel like he sees Aaron in the movement of a stroke, or the energy of a painting, but it’ll flit away just as quickly.

He used to go to the beach in Blackpool a lot, even staying there one whole week one time. He’d walked across the sand in search of _something_. The metal detector of his heart just looking and searching.

But of course he hadn’t found it, because it wasn’t quite lost. Just thrown away in greed and stupidity.

He’d considered calling him again, making a more heartfelt apology. But he’d read the sadness in Aaron’s final painting, the only one he’d left sitting in their bedroom; another recreation of Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_, but this time with everything wilted and drooping. 

Robert had put it in the back of his closet, only pulling it out to stare at it on rare occasions, when he had enough alcohol in his system.

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

:::::

  
Running into Aaron in this small French village nine months later feels less like a random happenstance and every bit like fate.

He looks good. Like time has been treating him well. He’s even ditched the liberal use of hair gel.

Robert offers to buy him a coffee, and Aaron just looks at him, as if weighing the pros and cons of it. It looks like he passes whatever test was administered, because Aaron nods his acceptance.

“Seeing anyone?” Robert finally asks, just managing to keep his voice casual. The question’s been sitting on the tip of his tongue for a while now, the proximity to Aaron begging his asking.

“Not at the moment,” Aaron answers, shaking his head. “Almost married this one bloke though.”

It feels like a kick to the chest but Robert manages to keep breathing.

“What happened?” He asks, staring down at his coffee for a long minute before coming up to search Aaron’s eyes.

_Why didn’t you marry him?_

“Didn’t really feel like it,” Aaron says, tone slightly joking. There’s a smile on his face, but his eyes are a sad kind of clear.

_He wasn’t you, was he?_

Robert clears his throat, searching for any other topic. “Do you still paint?”

It’s dumb question and they both know it. He might as well have asked if fish need water.

“Why?” Aaron snorts, with a wry kind of smile. “Need a forger or somethin’?”

It’s a simple question with a simple enough answer. But Robert can hear the words beating beneath it.

Another option.

Another chance.

This time he doesn’t waste it.

:::::

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

There may be a lot he’s forgotten, but there’s even more he remembers as he sits in the chair and watches Aaron.

He holds up the memories in his mind’s eye, constantly comparing and contrasting.

Some things have changed. Aaron’s grown more precise, more efficient, more skilled; an ease to his actions that Robert missed the forming of, and it pains him.

But a lot is still the same, those months apart doing nothing to dull them, if anything there’s a newfound clarity.

Aaron’s focus is just as intense as it’s always been, his eyes calm and studying. The muscles in his arms still shift and glide in the afternoon sunlight, the surface of a pond he misses diving in.

He wants to get up, pull his camera out, record everything for posterity.

But that’s not how this works, and he doesn’t know if it can. Just sits there surrounded by the knowledge that Aaron’s standing in his B&B room — and that he doesn’t do anything unless he wants it.

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

:::::

“So, who’s the buyer?” Aaron’s cleaning his brushes in the bathroom, a consummate professional at the worst of times.

Robert has to think for an actual minute because he almost forgets, like all of time hasn’t simply folded in on itself so there’s only them, this painting, and this small tarp and newspaper-covered bedroom.

“Me,” he replies, still sitting in that chair, having been too scared to move at any point in this process. (He hadn’t even gotten up to refill his drink. Just continued sitting there, glass in hand and ice melting.)

Aaron pauses. The sound of rushing water continues. Then he turns the tap off.

“What do you mean, ‘you’?” Aaron asks incredulously, stepping out of the bathroom without any brushes. Robert doesn’t blame him for not believing him. He can’t half believe himself either. 

“Thought we could open a gallery,” he says, quiet and bold. Doesn’t look up at Aaron until the last second.

“With what money?” The question is harsh and unforgiving. Luckily Robert is prepared for it.

“Haven’t you heard?” He asks with a smile. “Got a new job now. Working for a museum.”

When Aaron’s brow furrows in suspicion, his heart pangs. But he still adds, “Fraud detection.”

Aaron seems to study him, like he’s weighing the pros and cons again. But then he snorts and says, “How’d you manage that?”

Robert grins and replies, “What can I say? I am a con man.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything, just stands there and considers it. So Robert gives him the answer he’s really looking for.

“Gave away all of Lawrence’s money,” he says quietly, letting the truth ring through. “Donated it to charities for homeless LGBT youth.”

Aaron just nods, still thinking, still considering. A long beat passes between them.

Finally he says, with a nod over at the canvas. “So, do you want to see what you’re buyin’?”

“Sure,” Robert says, smile now coy on his lips. He doesn’t think he can get up, but he manages it, his knees almost turning into jelly.

The painting is nothing like what he’d expected, but it’s everything he could have ever wanted; golds, yellows, and blues in small delicate strokes coming together to form a rich tableau. The portrait of a man sitting on a sofa, while looking back and watching another man paint.

Robert looks back at Aaron with tears in his eyes. He hasn’t forgotten how to read him.

:::::

They fall into bed, like they did most things; quickly, urgently, and without abandon.

It feels like the first time all over again, that same feel of discovery.

Only this time is better because they know each other well; hands still familiar with the feel of each other’s bodies.

When they’re done, they just lie tangled in Robert’s sheets, both of them panting and gasping.

“When did you know?” Robert asks, when he finally catches his breath, Aaron now laying curled up to his side and against him; one arm thrown across his chest. “That you wanted to get back together?”

“Pretty much moment I saw you,” Aaron casually shrugs. It’s everything and nothing.

“Wait…” Robert says, slowly piecing it together. “That means you knew all along.”

“Can hardly miss it when _you_ go on the straight and narrow, can I?” Aaron explains.

“Who you calling ‘straight’?” Robert fires back good-naturedly — a callback to one of the jokes they shared between them.

“Well, I’m definitely not callin’ ya ‘narrow,’” Aaron jokes back, pinching his naked chest as he does so.

Robert flinches at the feeling but doesn’t move away, not after nine long months without him. Instead, he turns on his side, pushing himself over, until he’s lying stretched out over Aaron, held up by the bracing of his forearm on either side of Aaron’s face.

“So you really want to do this?” Robert asks, looking down into his eyes. He might as well be asking him if he wants to marry him. “Open up a gallery. Together.”

“Yeah, why not,” Aaron says, voice and face soft against the pillows, curls looking brown against the off-white cream. “Someone’s got to keep ya out of trouble, haven’t they?”

Robert smiles wide, like he hasn’t in a while. Then he leans down and kisses him.

:::::

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

That new painting is the first of many, many more. Aaron Dingle going on to make a name for himself. They hang it over their bed in their brand new bedroom, the first thing either of them sees when they walk into it. (Sometimes Robert takes it down to look at it further, always on a major anniversary. Whenever Aaron finds him, he comes and sits by his side, one arm around his shoulder, the other bracing him.)

With Aaron growing more popular, he quits his job as a mechanic, going fulltime into art and painting instead. He starts offering classes for kids with his earnings, helping underprivileged youth in his old neighbourhood, giving them a chance and a taste for the arts. 

Robert keeps his job at the museum for another year, before getting snapped up by a well-paying security firm. The money is enough to pay for their wedding, and later a honeymoon in that same French village. They even manage to book that very same bedroom.

Though a year or so later, Robert gets a call, one that has him ringing Aaron up first thing. Someone’s tried to sell what is being called a “lesser-known Dingle” to a too-rich heiress. Robert shamelessly has his associate Kath step in and pretend to be the buyer. Though Aaron does have to talk him out of going after them. (Aaron has a good laugh when he sees it, but Robert’s downright insulted. The forger’s clearly not just blind but stupid.)

Still, Robert lets Aaron pull him by the hand and lead him into their bedroom, where his eye yet again catches on that painting. He thinks of that one and the many since, Aaron letting him sit and watch as he works — even flip through all his sketchbooks, where he’s sketched and illustrated their time together since.

He looks over at Aaron and sees the love in his eyes. So he lets go and chooses the option in front of him.

_The way Aaron Dingle paints is… _

Everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I've met her, Anna's been one of the biggest cheerleaders for both my writing and all other creative endeavours. It's been a blast and pleasure to be her friend so for her birthday I wanted to try and gift her with something worthy of her and all the amazing art she produces for the fandom; many pieces of which take my breath away on a daily basis. (Literally, see yesterday and the day before's.) 
> 
> I wrote this fic forever ago, but I remember one of the things I most wanted to tackle or explore is the ways in which we put ourselves in our art, and what it's like to see and fall for that, because to me that just screamed, "ROBERT AND AARON." They always see each other on this whole other level, far from what anyone else might have told them. And to me, that felt reflected in Aaron's art. And in Robert seeing him for who he is while Aaron respects and sees him right back. 
> 
> As always, I hope I got the voices and the tone and everything else right. (If I got any actual factual/show details wrong, please let me know!) If you have any other thoughts, comments, questions, or concerns, drop me a line below or find me on Tumblr under rustandruin.


End file.
